“I told you: She’s no witch. She’s a princess.”
Glomar shrugged and looked up and down the street. He wondered if he could find his way through this maze back to the square with the well and locate his hatchet. He felt bereft without it, like a man who went out one day and forgot one of his arms. But there was no telling where the well might be. Shrugging, he picked a direction and started walking.
“Where do you think you’re going?” the cat meowled. He remained where he was, sitting very upright, but his tail lashed, sweeping dust up in a cloud.
“I’m going to fetch Gleamdren,” Glomar replied without looking back. “Just as I said I would.”
“You don’t know where she is!”
“Neither do you, so I don’t see much use in keeping your company.”
“What about Imraldera?”
Here Glomar stopped and slowly turned about. He was a badger down to his bones, his mind full of tunnels and rock, the good clean smells of fresh-turned dirt. In badger form, his nose was long, capable of sniffing out all manner of things through many layers of sediment. It took time for his mind to catch up with notions that his nose had sniffed out in a moment.
“You like her,” he said with a snort that may have been a laugh.
“What?” The cat’s ears pricked and his whiskers twitched. “What did you say?”
“I said, you like her. The mortal.”
“I never!”
“You really do.”
“Impossible!”
“You, who’ve never liked anyone but yourself all your life.”
And the captain snuffled again, his rugged face lit up with laughter. Eanrin stood with his mouth open, whiskers bristling, which was funnier still. Glomar had never known the Chief Poet of Iubdan Rudiobus to be at a loss for words. Miracles still happened in Faerie after all.
The cat hissed at the captain. “Now you’ve done it, Captain Glomar, meatheaded bungler. Badger!” His ears went back like horns. “Now you have incited the wrath of Bard Eanrin, Prince of Poetry!”
“And what will you do, poet? Versify me to death?”
“You think I can’t?” A light of fire blazed in the cat’s eyes. “I’ll find my lady Gleamdren,” he said. “I’ll find her so fast, it’ll make you ill! And when I’ve carried her home to the Mountain and all Rudiobus is singing my praises, where will you lay your shamed head to rest? And when songs of my valor fill your ears, where will you go to find peace?”
Glomar raised his bushy eyebrows. Then he shrugged. “Do your worst, cat,” he said, turned on heel, and continued down the street, snickering to himself as he went. The cat hurled insults at his back, but these had no effect. Within a few paces, the street made a sudden, gut-wrenching twist, and Glomar knew without a backward glance that he was now separated from the cat by distances he couldn’t begin to guess.
The separation caused him little anxiety. Lumé’s crown, he was happy to be rid of the orange devil! The shift, however, left him uneasy. It reminded him that, since he no longer followed in the Black Dogs’ Path behind the slight mortal lass, the city could do with him what it liked. It was no longer grounded as it had been before its queen destroyed it. It was as changeful and untrustworthy as the Wood Between, and angry besides. Its spirit had been killed, leaving behind a hollow shell of wrath, more than willing to swallow up intruders. A reflection of its furnace-hearted mistress, no doubt.
So Glomar proceeded with more care, his lumbering pace slower than before. Dragon’s teeth, being pursued by the Black Dogs had been easier than this! Every street, every tower, looked just like the one before.
The captain stopped suddenly. What a fool he was, using his eyes! Every badger knew to trust his nose first and foremost. He sank down into badger form, closed his beady eyes, and sniffled and snuffled long and hard. He caught an unpleasant scent that drew his interest. At this point, any change must be preferable to the continuing sameness. Perhaps it would be a clue to lead him to his lady.
He trundled off in pursuit of that scent, glad to have a goal. But when he found the source, he swore in badger tongue.
The towers had given way to a street lined with tombs. These were nearly as tall as the towers, but their purpose was unmistakable. There were no windows, for one thing, no doorways opening to the sky. They were carved all over with wings, wrapping around as though enfolding each tomb in a fond embrace. Glomar knew they must be the final resting places of the city’s former kings and queens.
A dreadful thought: The Sky People, like all Faerie, were not meant to die.